


Break Before Use

by WhoopsOK



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angels are Dicks (Supernatural), Artistic Liberties, Bad Guys Made Them Do It, Castiel Under Mind Control (Supernatural), Collared Castiel (Supernatural), Curse Breaking, Curses, Double Penetration in One Hole, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fuck Or Die, Grace Tampering, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Inspired by Fanfiction, Love Confessions, Misuse of Holy Oil??, Multi, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Objectification, Partial Mind Control, Protective Winchesters (Supernatural), Rape Aftermath, Sibling Incest, Sort of????, Tattoos, Threesome - M/M/M, Wing Grooming, Wing Kink, devocalization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:20:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22081723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoopsOK/pseuds/WhoopsOK
Summary: When Sam can see past his own horror, he realizes, the carving is laid over dozens of other scars, older scars of the same. Some light, some dark, some shifted slightly in all directions, some branded on top of fading tattoos, some gouged deep enough to have hit muscle, all reading D.W. S.W. D.W. S.W. D.W. S—“Jesus Christ,” Dean says weakly.Castiel says nothing.(Castiel is lured to heaven under the guise of peace and they send him back nearly in pieces.)Heed the tags.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 58
Kudos: 224





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Being Useful](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11337315) by [HazelDomain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HazelDomain/pseuds/HazelDomain). 



> Welcome to 2020! You made it and I’m proud of you!
> 
> The lovely and talented HazelDomain was nice enough to let me play around with her idea for Being Useful when I got to wondering about what would happen in the inverse: if Castiel was taken to heaven for, hm… obedience training before being returned to the Winchesters. Here is the result.
> 
> **Heed the tags.** They are updated for all chapters ~~which I meant to post today but whoops here’s the opener~~

It starts with Hannah’s voice, that’s what gets him.

It’s been a long time since he’s tried to focus on the continual stream of everything-everywhere that passes through all angels. His sibling’s voices have become white noise unless someone calls his name. Nobody has called his true name in a very long time. Cursed it, yes, loudly and in chorus at times, but even that hasn’t happened lately. The name Winchester pops up more often, but that line of thinking between his siblings disappears entirely if he focuses on it. Not conversations meant for him; they’ve come to know him as possessive, near savage regarding his charges. He doesn’t feel the need to correct them.

And so. The back of his head has become a continual murmur reminding him he is not the last of them, there are still angels, in heaven and walking the earth, alive and chattering. Doing their best to ignore him entirely as he does the same to them.

But Hannah calls him by name, urgently, so he turns to her consciousness instinctually.

Before she can speak again, it seems everyone starts talking all at once.

It’s dizzying to suddenly have to focus on so many voices after so long, but they’re all singing the same song for him. They don’t share Hannah’s urgency, but when he picks apart what they’re asking, why every other word seems to be _Winchester_ he can understand why they wouldn’t.

_It’s a business arrangement that nobody is really happy about_ , their tones all seem to agree, with varying levels of professional coolness.

The Winchesters are not going to hear out the Host of Heaven and there aren’t many angels prepared to listen to moderately evolved knuckle draggers with attitude problems. Castiel, as an angel with an attitude problem, as an unofficial Winchester with both feet rooted in humanity, is standing in a very unique middle ground.

“ _Why now?_ ” he calls back, guarded and suspicious.

“ _The Winchesters are not in The Gospel, they_ are _The Gospel_ ,” a few mumble, mostly confused, a little perturbed.

“ _Brother Castiel wants peace in Heaven and to be with the Winchesters_ ,” someone spits with no small amount of disgust, but a few others agree in milder tones.

“ _Castiel is different_ ,” someone says and the condescending way they say ‘ _different_ ’ is not flattering, made worse by the fake smile Castiel can feel them forcing onto their vessel’s face. “ _Of course he wants something different._ ”

“ _But we can all agree on peace,_ ” a chorus says and the harmonizing echoes of “ _peace, peace, peace_ ” make Castiel’s chest tight, squeezing against his learned suspicion of other angels near his Winchesters. “ _Let’s start there_.”

Castiel is left speechless at first. He thought he’d learned not to hope, but there it is, stealing his breath.

“… _I won’t break the wards,_ ” he says. Not the ones scattered across the bunker, not the ones in Baby, not the ones newly etched into Sam and Dean’s ribs, none of them. “ _I won’t break the wards_ ,” he repeats, and knows they understand it as, _I won’t let you near them until I trust you._

There is a token note of offence, but it’s followed by begrudged agreement.

_Mouthpiece,_ they call him; not complementary, but not necessarily inaccurate. He has a script, there’s a sale’s pitch to learn. They’re calling him to heaven.

Castiel goes to Sam and Dean first.

They don’t like it, of course they don’t.

Dean isn’t shy about his disapproval of the very idea of heaven getting any further influence in their lives. Castiel had expected as much. But the one thing in all this time, after all these hurts, that has never changed, is that Dean can’t look at Sam’s hope and stand unmoved. Sam doesn’t like it either, but Sam _hopes_.

Sam also wanted to be a lawyer for a long time.

So, in the end, Dean may throw away his beer a little aggressively, may close his door a little too hard, but he doesn’t say no. The three days within which he demands Castiel return are arbitrary, but Castiel accepts the terms amicably.

Angels sometime forget that time is a fragile thing for their charges, the beginning of infinity feeling just as close as the present. Heaven is like that. But Castiel doesn’t feel the need to explain how time slows and drags, nearly freezes in some corners of heaven. Wars can last eons there, but they can also be planned and fought in the time it takes a human to walk across town.

Castiel doesn’t think he’s going to be gone for three days.

In a lot of ways, he is absolutely correct.

By Sam and Dean’s count—Dean’s from the very beginning, Sam’s from the first night that passed in silence—Castiel is out of reach for just shy of 63 hours.

By Heaven’s count—and only the betting pools counted closely—Castiel is in their custody for…oh, a little over five months, probably? Or maybe closer to six? What does it matter? He broke around month four.

They just kept playing in the mess.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean spots Castiel first because he’s been looking for something to go wrong since the moment he left them for heaven.

He finds that something kneeling in the foyer with its knees spread and head bowed.

“ _Cas!?_ ” he shouts, dinner falling forgotten to the floor as he barrels down the stairs, Sam hot on his heels as soon as he realizes where Dean is going. He skids to his knees before Castiel, instantly grabbing him by the shoulders. “Cas, what happened?”

Castiel does not answer. He gives no indication he’s even _heard_ Dean, keeps his eyes low on Dean’s chest. When Dean lifts his face to try and look in his eyes, he doesn’t so much as twitch towards his gaze.

“Cas, can you hear…?” Sam’s voice peters off. “ _Dean_.”

Dean jerks to look at him, like he expects to find a threat physically in the room with them. Instead, he follows Sam’s gaze down to Castiel’s chest.

Castiel is dressed, mostly, in what appear to be the remnants of his usual attire, if a worse for the wear version of it. The dress pants are now faded to the point of being threadbare in places, his tie is missing, replaced by a thick leather band digging into his _throat_ , and his shirt soft with age, wrinkled and limp.

It was also spotted with fresh blood.

“Can I open your shirt?” Sam asks, face twisted with concern.

Castiel gives him a silent nod without raising his eyes.

That chills Sam and when he looks over, he sees the concern he feels on Dean’s face. He opens the shirt—that is held together by a grand total of three buttons—and his whole body goes cold.

On both sides of Castiel’s torso, freshly carved into the skin of his chest—just like Baby’s dashboard, just like the table in the main room—are the initials D.W. and S.W.

When Sam can see past his own horror, he realizes, the carving is laid over dozens of other scars, _older_ scars of the same. Some light, some dark, some shifted slightly in all directions, some branded on top of fading tattoos, some gouged deep enough to have hit _muscle_ , all reading D.W. S.W. _D.W. S.W. D.W. S_ —

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Dean says weakly.

Castiel says nothing.

“You can’t heal yourself?” Sam asks, gets no answer. “ _Castiel_ , can you hear me?” A short tilt of his head, barely a nod that still clearly strains his breathing. His Adam’s apple bobs painfully beneath the collar when he swallows.

“Get that thing off his _fucking neck_ ,” Dean snarls, but when he feels around for the clasp, the blatant terror on Castiel’s face has Sam’s stomach twisting.

“Dean, wait,” Sam says, because they’re missing something here, Castiel has finally raised his gaze, his eyes wide and panicked on Sam’s chest, _pleading._

Dean doesn’t spare him a glance. “I’m not—” The second the collar comes lose, Castiel starts gagging. It’s a horrible sound, like he’s drowning from the inside and can’t cough anything up because someone’s _choking him._ He claws at his throat, mouth open wide and lips going blue; his eyes start to roll back even as he bows before them.

“Dean, _look at him!!_ ” Sam screams, snatching the collar out of Dean’s hands. “Get it back on!”

The reaction is nearly instant. As soon as the leather touches his throat, Castiel sucks in a reedy breath and sags his weight against the collar. When Sam finally manages to fumble it closed, forces a hole through the leather a size bigger, Castiel sucks in a full breath. His hands come up to touch Sam, before he jerks back as though shocked. He folds his hands in his lap and straightens up shakily, head bowed even further than before, carefully turned away from Dean.

Now that he’s upright again, Sam is close enough to examine the collar. He hadn’t realized what he was feeling when it was in his hands, but now he can see it. There’s rune work all along the leather, symbols in some dialogue of high Enochian he barely recognizes and still makes his stomach swoop. There’s also something tiny and almost illegible carved into the buckle. “It’s enchanted,” he says, and from this angle, notices the blood patches dripping down Castiel’s back. “ _Christ._ ”

Dean doesn’t look like he can take much more at this point, but moves around to Castiel’s back anyway. His hands freeze when he reaches forward and Castiel flinches like he’d swung at him. “I’m not… I won’t touch the collar again, ok? Just wanna see what you’re dealing with here.”

Castiel doesn’t respond, but at this point Sam isn’t expecting it. He trembles in place when Dean’s hands pull his shirt down his arms, doing nothing more than moving helpfully to let him.

There are wounds on his back, two specifically, right where his primary wings should be. They’re jagged ovals with gouges arcing around them like they’d been hacked at.

For a moment, Sam feels like he’s going to vomit, but the way Dean sucks in a breath drags him back to reality.

“There was something in his mouth,” Dean forces out and Sam turns to look at him, finds him looking sick and frantic, nearly vibrating in place with impotence.

“What?”

“When he was—There’s something _in_ _his tongue._ ”

Sam didn’t get this far in life by not trusting his brother. “Cas, open your mouth for me?” he asks gently.

Castiel lets his jaw slack, lolls his tongue out _invitingly_. They’ve met hookers who can’t advertise their mouths that well and the thought sends him to such a dark place he can barely even breathe. The three studs down the center of Castiel’s tongue do nothing to help the image and Dean looks _murderous._

Sam breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth and doesn’t let himself start shaking or he won’t stop. “Castiel, I need you to answer me, yes or no is enough.”

A nod.

“Are these tied to the collar?”

Silence, no motion.

Dean takes a shot. “Do you know?”

A shake.

“But you couldn’t tell us anyway, could you?” Sam confirms.

A shake.

Enchanted, too, most likely. To keep him from telling them exactly what _the fuck is happening._

“Can you tell if we take them out, will it—?” Sam’s voice catches. “Will it kill you?”

There’s a pause where it seems like he’s rubbing them into the roof of his mouth, but he ultimately shakes his head.

Dean kneels back down with them. “Will it _hurt_ you?” he clarifies.

Castiel shakes his head again, but this time with a shrug that pulls the scabs until a few separate and run. Like he’s saying, _what does it matter if it hurts?_

Sam and Dean share a look, silent agreement visible even through their fear and discomfort. “Open your mouth,” Sam says finally, wiping his hands uselessly on his shirt. Castiel doesn’t seem to notice either way, sits with his mouth open and eyes vacant.

The studs don’t come out. Sam looks under his tongue, can see the end and hold it, but twisting it doesn’t do anything but turn the whole piercing. It’s not like he has great leverage to begin with, but even being gentle with Castiel’s tongue, they shouldn’t be that hard to remove.

When he realizes Castiel is drooling all down his chin, dripping carelessly into his lap. He pulls his hands back, wipes Castiel’s chin with a wince, figuring he isn’t going to do it himself. He presses his mouth closed.

“What are you doing?” Dean asks.

“Where are the wire cutters?” Sam asks.

Dean doesn’t look shocked, just tense. “You feel comfortable cutting that close to his tongue?”

Sam sighs sharply. “If it’s keeping him from using his mouth, yeah.” He turns back to Castiel. “Can you stand?”

Castiel can and does, even if he stays hunched over like he’s waiting to take a hit. Sam almost has him sit down, but can’t imagine, even for a moment, letting him out of his sight. When they start for the tool box, Castiel shuffles along with them, silent as a shadow. His face goes tight and pale when Dean opens it, enough that he notices even out of the corner of his eyes, so he shuts it again and turns to face him. The look on his face is one Sam has seen all his life. It’s the one he automatically falls into when he’s talking to terrified children. Now, Sam is old enough to recognize how many times he’s looked at Sam like that while he was scared out of his goddamn mind.

“We’re just gonna cut the studs, Cas, nothing else, ok?” Dean promises. Castiel’s face doesn’t change at all, like whether or not it’s true doesn’t make a bit of difference.

The look Dean shoots Sam is so cut through with pain Sam almost can’t stand it. He clears his throat and looks over at Castiel. “Stick your tongue out,” he says, spurring Dean back into rifling through the tool box. “I don’t want you to accidently swallow the pieces.”

Castiel does as instructed and Dean is the one to gently reach for the studs this time, pressing down with his thumb to expose the bar stuck in the muscle. “Be still,” he says lowly. He gets the blades between Castiel’s tongue and the ball, has to tug up a little to make sure Castiel doesn’t lose any taste buds in the process. Almost too late, Sam reaches out to catch the piece that falls off when Dean finally manages to push down hard enough to cut through the metal.

When the piece hits Sam’s palm, for a split second it feels _heavy_ and hot enough to burn, but then it goes from silver to black and lightens enough that he could sigh and blow it away. He drops it on a spare rag on the table instead, takes the bottom piece from Dean when he hands it over. They repeat the process through the next two studs, Castiel stone still through the whole time except for his unsteady breathing and a slight flinch when Dean clips through the one furthest back. They both get a clear view of the three, inflamed and ragged little holes in Castiel’s tongue because he doesn’t close his mouth now either.

“All done,” Dean says and, like his brother, wipes Castiel’s face with his sleeve before tapping under his chin until he closes his mouth.

Sam is nearly holding his breath. “Can you speak?”

Castiel still doesn’t raise his eyes higher than Sam’s chest. “Yes, Master.”

“ _Master?_ ” Dean demands sharply enough that Castiel’s eyes drop to the floor at once, the rest of him nearly following.

The breath of relief Sam wanted to let out the second before stalls in his chest. “Why did you call me that?”

Castiel blinks slowly, nearly tilts his head before he catches himself. “I serve you, Master.”

Dean flinches like the words physically hurt, steps back in horror in a way nothing else has ever made him. “It’s fucked up his head,” he growls, pointing at the collar accusingly. “We gotta get that shit off him, it—”

“No!” Castiel exclaims, then before Dean can respond, all the blood drains from his face and he drops to his knees, puts his _forehead on the ground._ “I-I apologize for speaking out of turn, it will not happen again. Please, Master, I can do better if instructed. I can take any punishment you deem necessary, just… Please.” His fingers dig into the ground and his voice shakes. “Please, let me keep my collar.”

“Okay,” Sam answers softly, ignoring the look Dean shoots him. “One thing at a time,” he says to both of them, but focuses on Castiel. He leans down to touch Castiel’s shoulder, swallowing when he flinches, but still drawing him back upright. “Just… don’t call us that, ok? I’m—My name is _Sam_ , nothing else. That’s Dean, _not Master._ ”

Castiel stares at his shoulder, eyes teary and wide with disbelief. “Yes, sir. _Sam_.”

Sam lets that slide because he doesn’t know what else to do with it. He looks up at Dean who looks for all the world like he may be having some kind of out of body experience. “Dean.”

It snaps him back to reality. “Ok,” he claps, though his mouth pinches shut again when Castiel twitches at the sound. He lowers his hands, reaches one out slowly for Castiel. “Ok, let’s… get you patched up?”

Castiel looks at Dean’s hand like it’s foreign, like he doesn’t have a clue what to do with it. He hesitates before leaning forward until Dean’s hand rests on the crown of his head. “Thank you, Dean.”

It’s a wildly disorienting image, only marginally corrected by Dean lowering himself to take Castiel by the hand. Sam does the same. He can stand without the help, but until they get a closer look at him, there’s no point in risking anything worse.

“Are you hurt anywhere else we need to worry about?” Sam asks, indicating the mess of his torso.

There’s a hesitation to Castiel’s “No, Sam” that makes Sam uncomfortable, but he keeps his eyes peeled for any additional damage when Dean has Castiel change out of his tattered clothes. Given the holes in clothes, the places worn through and dark with what can only be dried blood, Sam can only imagine he’s been healed everywhere except— _D.W. S. W._ —except where they _wanted_ them to see the damage.

_This is your fault,_ written plain as day in blood and pain on their best friend.

It has to hurt like a bitch when they clean him up, but Castiel doesn’t say a word. Still, Sam watches tension run all down his back when he bandages the wounds his wings left. The tension never really fades, but he can’t answer when Sam asks if there’s anything they can do for his wings. Dean frowns and Sam comes around to find Castiel crying silently.

“Sorry,” Sam says, wiping his face, because the piercings must’ve been additional to the collar and he’s still got words stuck in his throat. “I’m sorry, don’t worry about it.” He squeezes his shoulder gently. “How about you get changed? Something…” _That won’t aggravate your wounds._ “Put on something loose, okay?”

“You can wear something of ours,” Dean adds. “We’ll be right here when you get back.”

Castiel gives them a nod that edges into the territory of a bow. “Yes, sirs. Thank you.”

Sam is unsurprised when as soon as Castiel clears the doorway, Dean closes them in the bathroom together.

“What the _fuck_ happened?” he hisses like Sam has a single ounce more information than he does. “He went to heaven and they gave him a-a _mind control collar?_ ”

Maybe he does have an ounce more info. “I don’t think that’s what it’s doing. Collars are about control, but I…” Sam thinks back on the etchings in the leather, feeling ill. “I can’t read all of what that says, I’ll need to go through our index to—”

“All?” Dean cuts in.

“What?”

“You said you couldn’t read _all_ of it,” Dean answers. “What part could you read?”

“Our name, _Winchester_ with…” Sam swallows several times before he says a syllable Dean doesn’t attempt to repeat. “With a possessive suffix, it…” His expression buckles a little. “It designates property rights.”

When Dean turns away Sam knows what’s coming, but he still jumps a little when Dean kicks over the rickety shower caddy. “God _damn it!!_ _Property_ , Sam?”

“I could be wrong?” Sam allows.

Dean is too livid for that to work. “Yeah, and I could’ve been a Playboy Bunny! What—?” He motions down the hall, losing his steam all at once. “How do we fix him?”

Sam takes a deep breath. Allows himself enough hope to believe this can be fixed. “We figure out what’s wrong first. _Specifically,_ what’s wrong.” He rubs his face. “Even if he can’t tell us most things, _fuck…_ ”

“We still gotta ask,” Dean says and heads for the door. He almost trips over Castiel kneeling in the hallway. “ _Woah!_ Hey, man…”

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel answers instantly, like he didn’t almost take a knee to the face. He looks slumpy and lost in Dean’s sweat pants and shirt, the dark leather around his neck out of place in the sea of soft greys. He keeps his head bowed. “I am prepared to accept my punishment for my behavior earlier.”

“You’re not going to be _punished_ , Jesus, Cas!” Dean exclaims, reaching down to try and lift his head up. Castiel doesn’t refuse the motion, he just kisses Dean’s hand and refuses to look him in the eyes.

“Then I am prepared to thank you for your kindness,” Castiel says and, horror of horrors, licks Dean’s palm.

Anywhere else, the image would’ve sent Dean into conniption, but as it stands Sam can see the horror he feels wash over Dean as he tugs his hand back. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Whatever you would like it to, Mas— _Dean_. Dean,” Castiel corrects quickly lowering his face.

Dean doesn’t have a clue what to do with himself. He goes to his knees, desperate. “Cas, buddy, _please,_ ” he says, taking Castiel by the shoulders. “I know you can’t tell us everything, but you gotta help us out here. Tell us what you need.”

“To please you,” Castiel answers with no hesitation, reaching a hand up Dean’s thigh.

Dean catches it in a tight grip, forces it off. “ _Not that_ ,” he answers tightly.

That seems to distress Castiel almost more than anything else today. “That’s all I—”

“If you want to please us,” Sam interrupts, broken out in a cold sweat, “tell us what we can do to help you.”

Castiel looks desperate. “I am meant for nothing but your use,” he answers. “You were kind enough to spare me, I will make it worth the trouble if you give me the chance.” The smile he offers is brittle and panicked, so obviously forced it hurts to look at. “They made—” The smile folds when he coughs suddenly a hand coming up to his throat. His voice is wheezy when he continues. “I know how to do so many things now, to be _good_ to you like I’m meant to be.” Again, there’s a hand aiming right for Dean’s crotch, only missing when Dean suddenly stands, backing against the wall.

“Cas, go lay down,” Dean blurts. His hands are shaking.

Nodding, Castiel stands eagerly. “Should I prepare myself for—?”

“ _No!_ ” Dean shouts before he can finish that thought. “Just—Go to your room, go lay down for a while.”

“I-I’m sorry,” Castiel offers, looking terrified. “I’ll be better—”

“You’re not in trouble,” Sam tries to cajole gently. “You’re ok, just go rest. We’ll be there after a while, ok?”

That doesn’t appear to soothe him at all, but Castiel does not question the order. “Sir,” he bows and scurries away.

Dean trudges in the opposite direction.

Sam just has to stand there for a minute because this is _awful, it’s awful, but breathe, Sam, focus._ He waits until he hears Dean punch something down the hall before he follows. He finds Dean leaning over the table in the war room, head drooped between his shoulders, eyes clenched shut. “I need a minute.”

“I’m…” Sam doesn’t know what to say, there’s nothing _to_ say to make this better. “I’m going to go see what books we can get started with on-on binding spells and…fuck, _angelic curses_? We’ll start there, ok?”

“ _I need a minute, Sam,_ ” Dean emphasizes, voice rattling like he’s going to start yelling to avoid actually crying if he speaks again.

Sam lets him be.

It takes a while, but by the time Sam has dragged out just about every relevant book they have, neatly stacked on the table, Dean comes back in. If his eyes are red, Sam pretends not to notice. He squeezes Sam’s shoulder. “I’m gonna go check on him.”

“Yeah,” Sam acknowledges.

It should’ve occurred to Sam that Dean was gone for too long, but he’s already skimming the second chapter of a book when he hears Dean shout his name. He nearly knocks over his chair in his rush to get down the hallway. His heart jumps up into his throat when he realizes Castiel’s bedroom door is open and the inside looks…completely untouched. All the doors to the guest rooms are open, too, and they’re all empty. Where—?

“ _Dean?_ ” Sam yells, getting more alarmed by the second.

“ _Down here!_ ” Dean calls back and, well, at least now he sounds stressed, but not frantic. But why the hell is he in the basement?

When Sam bursts into the room, Dean is sitting in a chair against the wall, Castiel sitting on the floor in front of him. He looks content… except for how his nose is bleeding all down his mouth to the collar, pooling under it. The blood on his shirt is almost a perfect imprint of the rawest _D.W._ over his heart.

“Dean, what—!?”

“Isn’t he doing a good job?” Dean blurts, his eyes boring into Sam’s. “I told him we were waitin’ for you to get in here before we did anything else and he did _awesome_.”

Sam gets the gist of what’s happening instantly. He doesn’t know if it’s working until he looks over and sees the lax look on Castiel’s face turn tense and expectant at his silence. “…Yeah,” he says faintly, then stronger, “Yeah! That’s awesome, man, good-good job.” He flounders for a moment, unsure of how to draw out this line of conversation. At least until he reminds himself sharply that he can tell Castiel what they want, he can ask exactly that. “Actually, Cas, can you do something for me?”

Castiel nods, gaze raising from the floor to Sam’s knees. “I am made to please you.”

The words catch wrong on Sam’s nerves, of course they do, but there’s something _more_ to it that he can’t figure out. He feels bad for sending Castiel away, but they can’t talk in front of him and there are only so many orders he feels comfortable giving. Obviously, _go rest_ is not one that’s going to cut it. Still, if Castiel needs them, they’ll figure it out.

“Go take a shower. Be careful not to aggravate your wounds, we’ll need—” Sam stops, rephrases, “I _want_ to redress them.”

“Yes, Sam.” Castiel gets to his feet with a polite bow in Dean’s direction.

This time Dean waits until the shower kicks on. “What the fuck, Sam?”

“What the fuck, _me_??” Sam exclaims. “What happened here?”

“What happened is that he was in here having a _fucking seizure_!” Dean shouts, jumping to his feet and motioning around frantically. “I walked in on him bleeding and foaming at the mouth and I just—I said ‘ _please stop’_ and bam! He did, just like that! Sat up and asked _what next_ like he hadn’t just seized from putting his fingers up his ass!”

Sam’s mind reels trying to follow that last sentence. “His fingers up his…?” He feels himself go cold and can tell Dean sees it happen. “I didn’t… I didn’t think to check _there_.”

Dean’s stares at him blankly for a moment before his eyes widen. “They’re _angels_ ,” he chokes, like he wasn’t the one who laughed at Sam for believing they could be anything good.

“Does that even mean anything at this point?” Sam asks with a sneer.

Dean is just about going grey. “We can’t ask him to show us, Sam, he’ll say yes to whatever we—”

“You think I don’t know that?” Sam snaps. “Would you rather he gets an infection, Dean? He can’t heal himself!”

“What would we even _say_ to a doctor?”

“We don’t say anything! We pay, same as always.” Sam watches his brother’s face fall.

“We’ve never had to—”

Sam puts his hands up, waves that line of thinking away. “Dean, one trauma at a time, ok?” He says and it wouldn’t work any other time, but they have more pressing issues than what may or may not have happened to him. “Would you rather I do it?”

Sam loves Castiel, he doesn’t even remotely deny that, especially not to himself. But he knows Dean’s feelings sit heavier on his heart. It scares him how much he loves Castiel; Sam doesn’t blame him for not wanting to learn his body so closely in this context.

Dean’s face flashes with horror before he can get a grip on himself. “I...” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

“Nobody’s asking,” Sam reminds him. “We just have to do it.”

There’s nothing in Dean that has ever been inclined towards shirking the hard job, so he just nods. Walking into the bathroom after Castiel seems like the cherry on top of far too many violations, so they wait until the shower stops before they head over. Dean knocks.

The door opens to find Castiel standing, half holding a towel over himself absently like he’d been caught in the middle of drying off. “Yes, Dean?”

“Hiya, Cas,” Dean says. It’s gentle, but he can’t hide the queasiness in his expression. “We gotta talk, man.”

“Whatever you want, of course, Dean,” Castiel answers, dropping the towel and standing at attention.

Dean’s eyes flicker down before closing entirely. “Earlier when I walked in on you, uh…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, doesn’t need to. “Yes or no,” he says, feeling a little sick for asking. “Are you injured back there?”

Castiel hesitates, shakes his head. “No, Dean.”

Sam hesitates, too. “…Were you?”

Castiel starts to tremble, but doesn’t actually answer the question. “I’m clean,” he says instead, stepping into Sam’s space, making him run hot even as his hair stands on end. “I can take you, if that’s what you want. I will—”

Sam is quick to grab Castiel’s wrists before his hands can connect with his body. “Do you _need_ that, Cas?” he asks, rising terror making a mess of his heartbeat because _this cannot be happening._

Castiel stares at him, confused and visibly choosing his words carefully. “I only live to please you.”

All at once, Sam understands what they’ve done to Castiel and decides it’s probably for the best he won’t go to heaven when he dies.

“Can you get dressed for now?” Sam says, almost fast enough to cover up Dean _growling,_ “I’m killing them _all_.”

“Dean…” Sam warns when Castiel goes frightfully pale.

“They like to pretend they’re the good guys, but they’re fucking monsters, just like all the rest, fucking _rapists_ and—”

“ _Dean!_ ” Sam snaps, grabbing Dean’s arm and pushing him out into the hallway. “You gotta stop. I want revenge, too, I do—”

“ _But!?_ ” Dean snarls.

“But Castiel needs us right here, right now!” Sam hisses quietly. “Until we can figure out how to keep him from _hemorrhaging_ every time one of us looks a little unhappy, we’re not going anywhere _near_ heaven to do _a goddamn thing._ ” He lowers his voice another fraction. “I know you’re in love with Cas—”

The heat that rushes Dean’s face then is followed immediately by rage. “That is _not_ —”

Sam doesn’t let him get out whatever lie that’s about to be. “But don’t fucking talk to me like I don’t love him, too, like I’m not just as angry!”

Dean gets ahold of himself then, rubs a hand down his own face and fumbles for Sam’s shoulder. “Sam,” he breathes desperately. “We can’t _do_ that to him.”

“Yes, we can and we _will,_ ” he keeps talking over Dean’s instinctual rebuttal. His voice is shaking, but he makes himself continue. “This is Cas and I would give anything for it not to be like this, but if that’s what he needs and you _can’t_ , I will.”

It’s not a threat, not to anyone, but Sam still feels like a monster for saying it.

“Sirs,” Castiel announces as he steps into the hallway, dressed per request. “Do you have any further orders for me?”

For such a simple request, it seems to take all the resistance out of Dean, leaving him slumped with defeat, only standing from stress alone. “N—” he stops himself before he can deny it. “Yeah. Yeah, Cas, we need something from you.”

Castiel glances between them, shoulders lowering a fraction with relief. “What can I do?”

“Come sit down,” Dean says and turns towards the nearest guest room. Sam doesn’t question the choice when Dean posts up against the desk and Sam takes the desk chair.

Castiel sits on the bed without prompting.

“We need to ask you some things, but… you won’t be able to say no,” Sam reminds him.

“Yes,” Castiel agrees.

Sam finds Dean’s eyes before they simultaneously agree to rip this bandage off.

“When you say you live to please us…” Sam begins, “Does that mean it will actually _kill you_ if you don’t?”

Castiel nods. “Yes. Though…” He takes a sharp breath, fine shivers running up and down his body now. “You may remove my collar should you wish to dispose of me.”

“We _do not,_ ” Dean says in sharply. “We want you alive and well and _not_ —”

“Dean,” Sam cuts in before Dean can work himself into a lather. Dean lets out an angry breath but keeps it together. Sam turns back to Castiel. “Does that include sexual pleasure, Cas?”

For the first time, something like shame cuts through the fear in his face. “Yes.”

Dean swears under his breath. “Does it have to be both of us?”

Castiel’s face flickers in thought. “That… is entirely up to you. I just…” His shoulders hunch almost imperceptibly. “Every day or multiple times every few days.”

Sam takes in the way he’s braced for a hit he will _never_ receive again and blurts out a question before he can think better of it. “Did they make it hurt?” When he’s met with silence and fear, he can imagine the answer is something along the lines of yes, absolutely, brutally. He thinks of the scars on Castiel’s chest and what might’ve been happening while they were put there. “We don’t want to do that to you.”

Castiel’s eyes go blank in a way that’s frightening. “You can do whatever you want to me.”

“I know,” Sam says coming to kneel in front of him. He finally gives into the urge to touch him, gently, taking his hands. “But we don’t want to hurt you. We don’t want you hurt at all. We want to make you feel good.” He looks back to Dean for a moment; his arms are folded across his chest and he looks uncomfortable, but he nods him on. Sam strokes his thumbs over the back of Castiel’s hands. “Does it feel good when you please us?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Castiel answers, more certainty in that than anything else he’s said.

Sam kisses his hand, Castiel gasping at the feeling. “It pleases me when I make people feel good. I love making people feel good.” He kisses Castiel’s palms. “I’m so sorry it has to be this way, but I still wanna try to make it good for you. Can you tell us what you like? Anything you like?”

Castiel’s face wavers away from blank stoicism, crinkling like he might start sobbing before he winces at the feeling of his own tears on his face. “I’m sor—”

“I’m not going to hurt you for crying, Cas,” Sam says, kissing his fingers again. “You can cry if you need to, ok?”

Castiel’s breath hiccups, a low and miserable sound wheezing out of him. “ _Sam_.”

“Tell us how to make this good for you.”

“I am not meant to order you,” Castiel cries.

“You don’t have to _order_ us,” Dean tosses in. “Telling us what you like isn’t an order, Cas, we’re asking you to. What do you want?”

Clutching Sam’s hands, Castiel shudders, still holding back sobs. “I-I want to look at you. They wouldn’t—” He gags, mouth twisting like he’s tasted something sour. “I want to know it’s _you_. I want to see you, touch you. I don’t…” He takes a breath, curling in on himself, down towards Sam. “You don’t kiss repulsive things.”

Sam reads between the lines of that easily and carefully keeps the rage he feels building in his chest off his face, feels Dean shift behind him as he struggles to do the same.

“No, I don’t,” Sam says and presses a kiss to the tears on Castiel’s cheeks, making him cry harder. “I don’t kiss repulsive things at all.” He kisses Castiel’s chin. “I only kiss beautiful, _wonderful_ things that make me happy.”

“Sam!” Castiel sobs. Sam kisses his mouth, slow and gentle, like Castiel is new and perfect, like Sam doesn’t want to scare him, because he doesn’t.

Sam lets the truth slip out because it’s easier and kinder than holding it back. “I’m kissing someone I love very much.”

Hunting for a living means that Sam’s reflexes are just good enough that he doesn’t topple over when Castiel crashes into him, arms around his neck and crying against his shoulder.

“Cas?” Dean says, startled, kneeling beside them on the floor.

“You’ve never said,” Castiel chokes out.

That catches both of them off guard, though Dean recovers first. “Did they use our voices?”

Castiel nods at that, pulling out of Sam’s arms suddenly like he never should’ve fallen in. “I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_ , it’s my _fault_.”

Dean touches his shoulder. “ _No_ , Cas, this is not—”

“No, it is! All I could think about was you, always you two, coming to save me and when they realized how I felt, they—” Castiel stops himself in time before the curse cuts him off, sobbing into his hand. “It was _you_ and you made it _hurt!_ ” He blurts, shattering Sam’s heart but continuing on before he can swear all over that they would _never_. “Knowing you knew how _disgusting_ I was, how I had _defiled_ myself to thoughts of you. It _hurt_ thinking that you knew and _hated me for it_. Would only touch me when I couldn’t _see_ you and you never said—”

“We love you,” Sam cuts in.

Castiel scrubs at his eyes. “I’m _sorry._ ”

“Castiel, look at me,” Dean says and Castiel has to fight to do it, but he turns and, for the first time since this started, looks Dean in the eyes. For the first time since this started, Dean smiles at him. It looks like his heart is breaking, but it’s still a smile. “You don’t need to be sorry for thinking of us. Hell, I…” He swallows, running a hand up through Castiel’s hair as he confesses, “I think about you like that, too. It’s not _defiling_ it’s just—it’s just how brains work, man. But I promise you, even if we’d gotten here on our own, if nobody had _forced_ you, I would’ve told you. Cas, I love you _so_ fucking much.”

“I’ve… I’ve always wanted…” Castiel’s gaze flickers between them, eyes wet and vulnerable. “I _love_ you. I was always _yours_ ,” he says softly. “The collar didn’t do that, it just made it _hurt_ , but I was always meant to be _yours_ , I was made for—”

Dean kisses him because that’s too much to hear. The hot spark of arousal it sends thorough Sam almost makes him ill. He fights off the guilt because it’s not going to help Castiel right now so he has no fucking use for it.

“How do you need it, Cas?”

“You have to ejaculate inside me,” Castiel says and, fuck, if it were any other time, Sam would laugh at his stiff language. Dean would, too.

As it stands, Sam just kisses his temple again. “Ok, Cas.”

This isn’t the sort of thing you rock-paper-scissors over; _who gets to fuck the curse out of our best friend?_ Sam would vote Dean first, on the premise of…fucking _true love_ , if nothing else, but Dean is pulling back already like he’s scaring himself again. He looks at Sam pointedly.

“Sammy’s gonna take care of you first,” he says and it occurs to Sam then that Dean may _genuinely not know_ how to have sex with a man.

“Dean’s gonna stay,” Sam tries out, trying not to let it sound like a question.

Dean answers by sitting in the chair Sam had vacated. Sam stands, taking Castiel up from the floor with him. “Get on the bed, I’ll be right back.” When Castiel moves to do as he’s told, Sam goes to the nearest bathroom, riffling through the drawers before spotting a tube of lubricant in the mess Dean had kicked out of the shower caddy. When he gets back, he has to stop for a moment when he sees Castiel kneeling on the bed, head bowed and lax with the instructions to wait, Dean watching him with wonder.

Sam sits on the bed so Castiel is looking down at him. “Good,” he says and Castiel shivers all over, mouth falling open on a heavy breath. “Very good, Cas, I’m gonna get you ready now.”

Castiel’s eyes track down to the bottle of lube by Sam’s knee. “You don’t have to. I can take—”

“Can I do what I want?” Sam asks and Castiel slumps towards Sam at once, pressing his forehead against Sam’s.

“Yes, Sam.”

Sam runs a hand up Castiel’s side, careful of the wounds on his chest. “I want this to be good,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw. “I know you’re hurting already so I want to be gentle.”

“Ok, Sammy,” Castiel slurs and Sam’s breath stalls in his chest. He sees Dean shift restlessly out of the corner of his eyes. This is crossing a line of closeness for them, more than all the ones they’ve already blown past, but, well… If they’re gonna cross this bridge, they may as well do so thoroughly.

“Good, Cas, thank you,” Sam says and reaches for the tail end of Castiel’s shirt. He lets it go when Castiel tenses, slides his fingers along his waistband instead. “Can I take your pants off?”

Castiel nods, shoving the pants down and kicking them off the bed. Sam lets himself appreciate that for a moment. He lets his hands run up and down Castiel’s thighs before pulling him to kneel over his lap, back to Dean. Sam is not new at this and gets the lube open with one hand, even with Castiel using his shoulders for balance. “Gonna touch you now, okay?” When he gets a nod, he dips his hand between Castiel’s legs. The sound he makes when Sam finds his hole gets Sam’s body onboard with what’s happening, a rush of arousal sweeping over him. Pressing his fingers up into Castiel has him getting hard in his jeans. “There we go.”

“ _Sam,_ ” Castiel gasps, _shocked_ , as he writhes down into Sam’s touch.

_They made it hurt,_ Sam thinks and has to press his face into Castiel’s skin, kiss the fluttering pulse point of his throat. “How’s that?” he asks, curling his fingers softly until Castiel clenches around him, moaning with his head thrown back.

“ _Good,_ Sam, _oh…_ Can I—? _More,_ ” Castiel trips over himself to say and Sam would give him anything. He spreads his fingers, pulling down as he closes them together, stroking Castiel’s insides until he’s rocking down against Sam’s hand, sloppy wet and slick.

“Think you’re ready for me?” Sam asks, because he has to. Even if none of this is fair, even if Castiel isn’t ready, they can only hold this off for so long. “Think about it, Cas. Do _not_ let me hurt you.”

The relief he feels when Castiel only nods frantically, flush and slack jawed, fists clutched in Sam’s shirt. “Yes, yes, _please._ It’s good, Sam, I feel good.” The last word comes out on a sob as he looks down at Sam, then.

Sam can’t help but catch his lips as soon as they’re close enough. He pulls his fingers free even as he keeps one arm around Castiel’s lower back. “You can stay on top of me,” he says, moving back until he’s out from under Castiel, undoing his belt and shoving his pants out of the way so he can kneel on the bed. The overwhelmed look on Castiel’s face would sink Sam’s heart if it wasn’t accompanied by his mouth falling open, face pink instead of pale. He half reaches; stops himself. So Sam reaches out instead sighing when Castiel scrambles for him, spreading his legs to get over Sam again.

“You can move as much as you want or not at all,” Sam says, slicking his hand before dragging it down his arousal with a soft sound. He wipes it uncaringly on the sheets before he spreads Castiel’s ass.

“ _Fucking hell_ ,” Dean wheezes and Sam thinks that should unnerve him more, shouldn’t leave him leaking down his shaft, but he’s already decided not to psychoanalyze himself today. Groaning into Castiel’s shoulder, he looks up at Dean as he guides him down onto his cock. He gets to see the aroused shock on Dean’s face for a moment before the sound of Castiel whining in his ear draws him back.

“You okay? Does it hurt?” Sam asks, rubbing his cheek against Castiel’s scruff, carefully holding him up from taking anymore. Castiel presses kisses to his throat and shakes his head.

“I like this when you do it,” Castiel answers dreamily.

That unintentionally puts a knot in Sam’s throat, but he clears it away. He breaths out as he lets Castiel sink down the rest of the way. They sit there motionless for several breaths until Castiel lifts himself and Sam nearly raises up off the bed with him. “ _Oh._ ”

“ _Yes,_ ” Castiel gasps. Sam takes that for all it can be and braces his knees to thrust up into Castiel with slow force, jolting him into bracing himself as well.

There’s no pride to maintain here, so Sam doesn’t try to make this any longer than it needs to be. Maybe, when they’re past this, there will be more time to explore all the ways Castiel can take it, but for now, he just tries to _get there._

It was maybe naive of them to think staying aroused would be an issue.

Sam gets there almost as soon as his thighs start burning. “Do you want to come, too?”

Castiel is clearly somewhere beyond words and has to fight his way back to answer. “I want to wait for Dean,” he breathes.

Sam can’t quite answer for why that does it for him, why Dean’s answering swear tips over the heat in his gut, but he refuses to examine this situation too closely. He grinds deep as he comes, Castiel noticeably sagging in relief when Sam does, light returning to his eyes.

“Thank you,” Castiel whispers and, again, Sam could just _cry._

“You don’t need to thank me,” Sam says against Castiel’s mouth, turns to look at Dean, unsurprised to see arousal blowing his eyes wide. “Dean?”

There are a thousand jokes Sam knows Dean could make, _would_ if things weren’t—if this wasn’t what it is. This time though, he just wipes his hand over his mouth, clears his throat. “I, uh. I guess it’s my turn?”

“Only if you want,” Sam says. He’s not a young man anymore, but, “If we wait a while, I can get it back—”

“Ok, nix the bragging, gigantor,” Dean sneers sounding remotely more like his normal self. “I…” His gaze falls back on Castiel, expression softening even as it takes on a distressed quality. “You want… You want me, too, Cas?” If Sam knows his brother at all, the question isn’t just about the sex.

Castiel nods, twisting to look at Dean head-on. “But I can’t make you do anything, Dean,” he says, then adds on a quiet, “I _wouldn’t_.”

Dean swallows. “Pull out, Sammy,” he says, standing and reaching to take Castiel’s arms to help him off. He doesn’t really let him go even as Castiel shudders all over, Sam’s release sliding down his leg. Dean doesn’t even comment on it, the only sign he’s noticed the soft shuddering of his breath aligning with Castiel’s. “Here, not gonna lay you out with…” he adjusts Castiel until he’s seated at the edge of the bed, tugs a pillow over to prop up under his back as he settles between his legs.

The reverence with which Dean touches Castiel is so beautifully tender, it stings Sam’s eyes. It reminds him, not for the first time, that Dean has been in love with Castiel for years. He wants to cry for a different reason then.

Sam can let them have this. He tries to be quiet about grabbing his pants. Tries not to watch too closely how Dean kisses Castiel like he’s trying to push his soul into the angel’s throat and Castiel touches him like he might shatter. It’s beautiful, it really is; Sam is lucky to even be on the peripherals. Maybe his musing makes him move too slowly or not quite silently enough, because Dean is turning towards him.

“Stay,” he says and Sam sees the word mirrored in Castiel’s eyes. “Keepin’ it in the family, I guess.”

It’s such a gross joke Sam can’t help the scoff he lets out. He almost says something about how sick that is, but given their awful new metric for fucked up behavior, he just sits back down on the end of the bed. A challenge.

Dean doesn’t rise to it, just nods his acceptance and turns his attention back to Castiel, stroking a hand up his cheek. “You ready, Cas?” he asks, undoing his fly with one hand.

Castiel leans in to press their noses together. “I’ve been waiting years for you,” he confesses and Dean’s expression crumbles all at once. The kiss they share then is every bit as profound as their bond implied it should be. When Dean’s pants and boxers fall down around his thighs, he puts his hand out expectantly. Sam would be annoyed— _is_ annoyed faintly—but feels grounded in the familiar arrogance of his big brother. He puts the lube in Dean’s hand, doesn’t care one way or another if he gets caught looking as he slathers it over his cock. There’s a moment of uncertainty when Dean looks between their bodies— _Sam was right, he’s legitimately never done this before_ —but then he’s just breathing out and rolling with it, same as he always does.

Pushing into Castiel leaves them both gasping, Dean never once taking his eyes off the complete rapture on Castiel’s face. When he’s fully sheathed, thighs pressed against the bed, he gives a quick thrust that nearly sends Castiel flat. He throws a hand back to catch himself, the other still wrapped around Dean’s bicep. “ _Dean!_ ”

“Yeah, hon, I’m here,” Dean soothes, getting an arm around Castiel’s waist as his movements get bolder. “Hold on, I got you.”

Dean is keeping a good hold of Castiel, even as he sweats and writhes beneath him. He doesn’t need Sam’s help, but Sam still reaches out any way when Castiel starts to slide back onto the bed. Keeping his hand carefully away from the bandages on his shoulder blades, Sam holds him steady, then holds _half his weight_ when Castiel leans back trustingly. The motion bares his throat to Dean who doesn’t pass the opportunity to put his mouth there.

“Do you wanna come, Cas?” Dean asks tightly.

Castiel squeaks out a breathless, “Yes!”

“Can you?”

“Yes, Dean, _yes_...”

“Show me,” Dean says and, trusting Sam to keep Castiel upright, reaches a hand between their bodies. It’s a clumsy grab for Castiel’s arousal, but the motion rocks it into his fist and it’s enough.

Castiel _wails_ as he comes across his stomach, legs locking tight around Dean’s waist. Dean grunts into the crook of his neck as he’s pulled in close, hips stuttering up into Castiel’s body. Sam isn’t sure which of these makes him feel like hot water is running down the inside of his chest. He just adjusts so he can continue to hold up Castiel as painlessly as possible, face completely slack and pink; sated for now.

“How was that?” Dean asks, kissing Castiel’s cheek. Normally, awkwardness would probably settle back into the room, but Sam can only focus on his concern at the moment. “Think you can rest now?”

“I’m not…” Castiel takes a breath, though it turns into a wordless garble when Dean pulls out. The color in Castiel’s cheeks stays firmly in place. “The pain is gone,” he answers eventually, “but I don’t think I’m meant to rest.”

The quiet that falls on them then kicks any semblance of afterglow clear out of the room. Dean is back to looking ill, even if he can’t quite make himself pull away from Castiel.

Sam thinks carefully about what he’s going to say. “Cas, I’m going to shower,” he says, catching Dean’s eye when it flickers to him in confusion. “Lay with Dean until I get back.”

“Yes, Sam,” Castiel replies dutifully, which doesn’t feel _great_ , but Dean follows his thinking. He pulls his boxers up and steps out of his jeans, getting onto the bed completely. Castiel doesn’t even think to reach for his clothes, just curls up on his side, his face pressed against Dean’s ribs.

The order is enough to let Castiel lay still while Dean pets his hair, as close to resting as he’s allowed.

They’ll take what they can get at this point.


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel still seems more at ease on the floor, so neither of them pushes the issue to get him into a chair. It’d been a battle to get him to sit down at all.

They’re all in the library now, Sam and Dean for research, Castiel because they’re trying to give him tasks that keep him mostly within their line of sight. Ordering him to rest had gone so spectacularly badly the last time that they’re reluctant to try it again. So far, ordering him to sit down has gone without consequence, so he’s seated in front of a shelf of angel lore, reading obediently.

It takes a couple of days—interspersed by the Winchesters taking Castiel to a bedroom and finding new and pleasant ways to make him cry—for Sam to realize they have another problem.

Sam looks up from the book he’s reading, but his words die when he catches Dean’s face, the frown he has directed at Castiel. “D?”

Dean looks a little more present at the sound of his voice, but doesn’t take his gaze off Castiel’s back. “He can’t hear me praying to him,” he mumbles. Then he scoffs, rubbing at his nose. “Of all the shit to be upset about. S’dumb that I ever thought about that like something… _romantic_ , back when.”

Sam swallows, caught off-guard by the sudden honesty. “It’s not dumb,” he replies softly. “Dean, prayer is—”

“It doesn’t make a difference, now,” Dean dismisses, nodding at the book in Sam’s hands. “What d’ya got?”

The tone is as complete a shutdown as Sam’s ever heard. One issue at a time. “Cas had this book yesterday,” he murmurs under his breath, pointing out a line of text. “ _That_ is almost word for word what’s on the buckle, but he didn’t mention it at all.”

Dean drags the book over, picks up the piece of paper they’d scrawled, as closely as they could, all the inscriptions on the collar. He squints at it back and forth for a minute before he flips the page face down. “Cas, c’mere a sec.”

Castiel doesn’t hesitate to put his book down and join them. “Yes, Dean?”

Dean holds up the book. “Did you read this?”

“I don’t believe so, why?” Castiel answers, no hint of dishonesty.

“Can you tell me what that says?” Dean says, pointing out the page.

“Of course. It—” Castiel starts to say, then blinks like he’s confused. His eyes dart over the page, skipping from line to line haphazardly. “I… don’t know what language that is.”

Sam and Dean share a look. “It’s Enochian, Cas,” Sam says and watches Castiel’s face twist further. He leans closer.

“Not any dialect I’ve ever seen,” Castiel says, even though Sam can read it with his limited knowledge of the language. Well, now he knows why that line at the bottom of their cheat sheet referenced ‘ _Migdal Bavel_ ’ seemingly apropos of nothing. He supposes they should be glad it’s not worse.

“You pick up any other books you can’t read, give them to one of us,” Dean says.

Castiel still looks confused, and maybe a little stung, but he nods. “Ok, Dean.”

It’s slow going, picking apart something so intricate.

They start off thinking line by line, but they aren’t willing to take any chances that the one off symbols are just filler when they find one— _a single symbol_ —that changes the phrasing on the buckle from ‘ _subjugate’_ to ‘ _extinguish_ ’ when you break the pattern made by the clasp. The collar is causing a dozen problems in and of itself with painful contingencies for every instance of disobedience. They’re chunking through it, but it’s exhausting work, even when Sam can remember to stand up from the table and try to sleep. It’s hard, knowing Castiel can’t sleep, can barely take what counts as a break at all, but they try because they have to.

One morning a few weeks in, Sam is sleep muddled and going for coffee when he notices the door to the garage is open. He wanders out and just…has to stop a minute to take in the scene.

The sun is filtering through the sky light and Castiel is staring right up into it, for a moment, for once, looking peaceable. They’ve been threading the needle with this curse and Castiel’s been bearing the brunt of every failure, after already being tortured by his own family. Sam is loathed to break the silence of the few moments Castiel can steal between pain.

But then Dean walking in from the opposite direction and stopping on a dime catches his attention. “ _Jesus Christ._ ”

Sam had been a half-step into the room anyway, but he comes all the way in, follows Dean’s gaze up to the wall above his head.

The shadow of Castiel’s wings on the far wall is something of a shock. Even more of a shock, is the bent and twisted state of them.

They’d taken one look at his wounds and thought themselves kind not to ask about his wings being cut off. And if they had been healing slow, well, it was a magical wound, right? That made sense. Never once did it occur to Sam that Castiel has been dragging them around _broken_.

“Cas—” Dean starts to say something disbelieving, all of which is so painfully, obviously the case. “Have they been like this the whole time?”

Castiel follows his line of sight, too, but doesn’t answer for a moment. “Angels can’t exist without their wings.” His face twitches when he raises one of his wings slightly, clearly a horrible strain. “They would’ve—” He clears his throat. “It would’ve been kinder to cut them off.” He holds his hands out for the cleaning supplies Dean’s carrying. “May I?”

Dean gives them over and watches Castiel go back inside. He’s always been good at staying angry, so it’s uncomfortable watching the despair on his face.

“If they’re still attached,” Sam says under his breath, “shouldn’t they have healed up more than that by now?” It stokes the fire a little.

“You an expert in angel biology now?” Dean snaps, but when Sam just gives him a tired look, his anger dims. “You thinking a spell?”

Sam nods. “If it’s a spell that broke them, there’s probably a way to…” He isn’t so hopeful as to say _reverse_ the damage, but some healing is better than none.

“Great,” Dean says, rubbing his face as he heads back into the main bunker. “One more thing to research…”

It winds up being simpler than anything else so far, actually, even if Castiel is nervous about not being able to read any of the suggested spell or remember anything they say when they talk about it.

“Best I can tell,” Sam says, pushing his hair back from his face in the same stressed habit he’s had since growing it out. “Best I can tell, if we work inside this sigil and coat our hands in holy oil, we should be able to physically set your wings ourselves.” He looks up at Castiel. “Right now, the flow of your grace is cut off by the breaks?”

Castiel nods. “They aren’t _just_ symbolic, but…my wings do represent the general state of my grace.”

“Well, this won’t cure everything, but…” Dean looks up at the empty space over Castiel’s shoulders. “That can’t be comfortable.”

“It isn’t meant to be,” Castiel says tetchily and even that much of an attitude towards them makes Sam feel a little relief over his jolt of sympathetic pain.

“But if we put them back together, they should heal?” Dean asks. “You’ll get some access to your grace back?”

There’s a pause where Castiel looks to the tome they’re consulting, tracking uselessly over the words his brain just can’t parse. He sighs. “In theory.”

“Do you want us to try it?” Sam asks.

Castiel looks at him, wincing. “Will you be able to?”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you set a dislocated joint?”

Dean narrows his eyes at him. “Of course we have.”

“What about four on the same side, some twisted completely in the wrong direction?” Castiel asks and Dean sits back with a sigh.

It’ll be a complicated and delicate process, not to mention a long and painful one. And that’s assuming they even get it right the first time through. Message received.

“If it would make you more comfortable, we’ll do it,” Dean says. “Do you _want_ us to, Cas?”

The complete trust with which he looks at them then is a little hard to stomach, for as touching as it is. Still, Castiel gives a small nod. “I apologize for… anything I may say.”

Dean offers him a tight smile. “We’re big boys, we can handle getting cursed out.”

It’s harder to handle how Castiel screams something awful when they twist the first joint back.

Throughout the whole process of getting the ritual set up, Castiel had been trying to give them a basic understanding of wing anatomy, interspersed with holes where the curse cut off his words. They were looking at a diagram and the spell parameters and listening to him, because they didn’t want to leave anything to chance given the pain they were about to put him through. When the circle was drawn and Castiel stepped inside, they got a clearer—more horrific—look at what they were dealing with.

Castiel took one look at their faces and asked them to tie him down first.

Sam almost regrets refusing when he has to hold him against the floor as Dean works.

Dean starts with the smaller breaks, just because Castiel can’t move enough to injure himself any worse with the shoulder joints out of socket. It’s the right choice, but it doesn’t make the process any less daunting. Castiel is very clearly trying to hold back the sounds, but it’s not working even slightly. They _meant_ for this to be as painful as possible. Still, Sam doesn’t let him go and Dean doesn’t let up; it’d just make this whole process longer than it needs to be.

By the time Dean has moved on to the second wing, Castiel has completely lost his battle with his composure. He’d nearly gotten out from under Sam completely, so Sam is half under him, his legs keeping Castiel’s pinned down. Sam has been trying to speak to him soothingly, but he isn’t sure Castiel can hear anything over his own sobbing.

“He’s almost done, I promise, Cas, he—”

“ _Master, please!!_ ” Castiel begs and Dean’s face twists like he’s been struck, but he powers through the last adjustment and Castiel’s wing snaps—literally—back into the correct place. It’s like the strings get cut off him and Sam just catches him, lets him collapse into his arms.

“It’s ok,” Dean promises, even though it’s not. He rubs his hand right between Castiel’s shoulder blades, right between his wings. “It’s done, we’re done, Cas. I’m so sorry.”

They’re all exhausted and covered in holy oil, a twisted pile together under Castiel’s trembling wings. The bones look like they’re set and—even if he hasn’t stopped crying—Castiel’s laying like they aren’t causing him horrible pain anymore. There are some feathers missing, a few out of place, but other than that, Sam thinks the worst of the physical damage is set to heal. He just adjusts his grip on Castiel, who flinches before returning the hug so tightly Sam can barely breathe, and breathes with him.

Then Dean starts singing _Hey, Jude_ and for the first time since this all started, Sam loses his battle to hold back his tears. He drops his cheek onto the top of Castiel’s head, cradling him in his lap as Dean adjusts his feathers gently, rubs holy oil between them. _That_ at least seems like it doesn’t hurt, just makes Castiel shudder in his arms, slowly regaining control of himself. He quiets after several minutes of this, until Dean adjusts one of the larger feathers along his spine and he grunts softly, wings fluttering as he shifts.

Dean’s gaze had gone hazy and meditative for a while there, but sharpens instantly at the sound. “Does this hurt, too?”

It takes a moment for Castiel to reply, seemingly unwilling to raise his face out of Sam’s neck. “No, Dean.” He sounds muffled and snotty, but not pained.

Dean’s shoulders relax at the use of his name. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Castiel snuggles back into Sam’s embrace and Sam adjusts his arms around his waist. He’s running a little warm now and Sam thinks he has some idea of what’s happening here.

Castiel’s assurance seems like enough for Dean, going back to grooming, but his eyes flicker up to Sam hesitantly. He pauses when he notices Sam’s pointed look. “Does it…the opposite of hurt?”

Sam sneers at him. “Real eloquent, D,” he says and Castiel lets out a sound that may be a laugh in another life.

“Yes,” Castiel answers, turns enough to catch Dean’s gaze. “It feels good.”

Dean’s face blows open, the desperate need to make any part of this good for Castiel taking over anything else. “Okay,” he says and runs his hand over the feathers he’s already adjusted. “I want you to feel good.” His breathing catches when Castiel’s eyes flutter shut, whole body relaxing.

Sam feels like he should be making himself more useful than a warm body perch, but Castiel seems content here and, frankly, so are Sam and Dean. That’s too hard to come by these days for Sam to stress the matter, so he just sits there and lets Castiel lean on him. For lack of anything better to do, he puts a hand in Castiel’s hair. It makes him let out a long breath that tickles down Sam’s throat. Sam does his best not to react to the half-chub he feels poking into his hip; if Castiel isn’t going to bring it up, Sam won’t either.

They go through the process in a peaceful silence, broken only by the occasional groan from Castiel when particularly tricky feathers fall back in line.

When Dean finishes, he strokes over Castiel’s wings in their entirety (or, their visible entirety, anyway), before moving to rub under the joints where Castiel’s wings meet his back.

The reaction is instant and violent, Castiel crying out and arching up in Sam’s lap, wings extending out fully, trembling.

Dean falls back onto his elbows in shock. “I’m—I’m sorry, are you ok?”

“Yes, but…” Castiel gasps, fingers digging into Sam’s shoulders. “You—you may want to stop.”

Sam meets Dean’s eyes. “Why?”

“I’m, um…” Castiel seems to come back to himself then, a flicker of guilt taking over his face when he meets Sam’s gaze. “It’s arousing me.”

Castiel doesn’t look back to see Dean’s eyes brighten, with relief and a healthy dose of arousal, but Sam gets to watch it happen as he feels the same. “Yeah, Cas, I know,” he says, because Castiel is sweating and hard in a way that was impossible not to notice. “He’s had you running hot for a while now.”

Dean is running a little hot now himself, sitting up so he’s close against Castiel’s back again. “If you’re good, we’re good, right, Sammy?”

Sam feels something in his chest twist at the nickname in the context of what they’re probably about to do. “Yeah,” he croaks, then strokes his hand through Castiel’s hair again. “Are you good, Cas?”

“Yeah,” Castiel breathes out like it’s a relief to say. “I’m very good.” When he sits up, Sam notices most of the scars on his chest are gone, save for a few thicker ones that must’ve been done with an angel blade. “May I stay—? _Ah!!_ ”

Castiel’s cries of pleasure are quickly becoming some of Sam’s favorite sounds, up to and including the way he shouts when Dean scratches under the joints of his wings. He’s moving gingerly, even though he’s likely healing himself completely with the grace flowing through them again, but even just that seems to have Castiel about to come out of his skin. Dean scratches at the joints and presses his fingers beneath the feathers.

“Do you think you can come like this?” Sam asks.

“I-I’ve never tr— _ngh!!_ ” Castiel leans his weight back into Dean’s hands, whatever he did destroying Castiel’s focus. “ _I don’t know._ ”

“Kinda wanna fuck you like this,” Dean says and licks his lips when Castiel and Sam groan at the insinuation.

“Please, Dean,” Castiel groans, kneeling up to shove at his pants.

Dean chuckles, helping. “Don’t ever gotta say please for me, babe, I’m so sweet on you.” He presses a kiss to the side of Castiel’s throat. “You take it so pretty.”

Sam can’t see what Dean does behind the veil of Castiel’s wings, but he hears the clattering of the jar of holy oil before Castiel’s mouth opens wide and his eyes slam shut. “ _Dean!_ ”

“What! You really care about their rules?” Dean replies with a smirk, over the sound of Castiel babbling in Enochian. “He seems to be enjoying himself.”

Sam can tell, Castiel’s dick is drooling steadily onto his shirt. Honestly, Sam is enjoying himself, too, can’t hold back his gasp when Dean’s knuckles bump against his arousal, startling both of them. “Fuck _,_ Dean.”

“That’s the idea,” Dean laughs and, _fuck,_ Sam has missed that sound.

“Both,” Castiel gasps, clearly, even though the word wobbles in his mouth. “Can I—? _Both of you?_ ”

“At the _same time_?” Dean exclaims, because surprisingly enough he can be such a prude sometimes. Then his eyes blow dark all of a sudden. “Holy _shit…_ ”

Castiel’s breath comes out on what is definitely a faint laugh then. “I can control my grace enough for that now.”

“What?” Sam asks, when Castiel throws his head back over Dean’s shoulder. “For…?”

“He’s so _soft inside,_ ” Dean says like he damn near can’t breathe around the thought of it.

“You’ll fit,” Castiel says, blindly stroking Sam’s neck up to hold his cheek. “If you want it. I won’t let—” The words clip off, frustrating him. He rephrases. “You can’t hurt me.”

Well, shit, when you put it that way.

There are more comfortable ways to do this, but Sam doesn’t want to leave the sigil space and have Castiel’s wings disappear on them, not when he so obviously enjoys having them played with now that they’re healed. He leans back on one arm, wondering how long he’ll be able to hold like that before he has to lay out flat. For now, he just gets his dick out; priorities and all. It’s a moot point anyway, when Castiel pushes him down, situating himself to sink onto Sam’s cock.

They’ve found, as of late, that he rather likes this position.

Sam is throbbing at the thought of doing it again. “Wait, wait, still get some—”

“I got it,” Dean answers as he yanks Sam’s pants the rest of the way off and, of all fucking things, slicks his hand down Sam’s cock.

“Oh, _shit_ —oh my—” Sam would be proud to get out one singular thought, but he’s too busy thrusting into his brother’s fist. “Dean!”

“Not gonna lie, been wanting to do that for a while now,” Dean admits like he didn’t just blow Sam’s fucking mind. Castiel is kissing Sam before he can respond one way or another. “Come on, Cas, he’s so hard for you.”

Castiel groans into Sam’s mouth and goes where Dean directs him, his warmth swallowing Sam’s arousal in a steady, unstopping slide. He sucks in a sharp breath when Sam sets his feet and gives him a short thrust before holding still.

“Dean,” he says tightly. “Dean, you gotta get in or—”

“Gonna blow already?” Dean teases, but then Sam can feel his dick pressed up against the base of his and it steals both their words. Castiel picks up in the silence, a steady mantra of “ _Please, please, yes, fuck_ ” that will echo in Sam’s _best_ dreams.

The way he screams this time is so very clearly of pleasure as Dean slides in, holding onto Castiel’s wings for balance.

Sam can’t do too much moving from this angle, not with Castiel’s weight holding him down and Dean’s thighs pressing his legs spread wide, but it doesn’t matter. From where he is, he gets a _fantastic_ view of Castiel, chest heaving and eyes nearly rolled up with pleasure. The way Castiel is warm and slick around him combined with the friction of Dean’s _dick against his_ has his toes curling. He can barely coordinate himself to move, but lets his weight fall flat to free up his hands. Normally, he would reach for Castiel’s dick, but on a whim, reaches up higher to stuff his fingers into the downy feathers at the bottom of his wings.

It’s a good choice, judging by the way Castiel clenches around them, wailing, wings contorting naturally at the sensation, trying to press into both their hands at once. He looks _beautiful_ like this, Sam thinks dazedly, before he has to close his eyes. Dean is cursing a blue streak, thrusts going all off kilter.

Sam _feels_ when Dean starts to come and it sets him off, too. He maybe hits his head a little hard on the floor when he lets it fall back, but even that brief spark of pain isn’t enough to ruin or even _distract_ from his orgasm.

Castiel feels it, too, always feels it on some level deeper than Sam and Dean will always be aware of. His whole body snaps taught, riding the waves in breathless silence. Then he whimpers something absolutely blasphemous in Enochian before he comes and comes and _comes_. It goes on for long enough that Sam manages to pry his eyes open and watch several long spurts before Castiel collapses, shuddering on top of him. “Oh, _oh Sam, Dean, **fuck** …_”

“Fuck,” Sam agrees, heaving for breath under Castiel’s weight, but unwilling to move him even half blinded by his wings. He grunts, though, when Dean moves and shifts them all around. “Dean—” is all he manages to get out before Dean is pulling out and the sensation sends shivers all down Sam’s spine.

“I take it….” Dean sounds a little awed even as he’s panting for breath. “Take it that was a win?” he asks, then Castiel finally pushes himself upright only to fall back onto Dean, enough for him to see the come splattered all over Sam and Castiel’s stomachs. “ _Holy shit…_ ”

“A win,” Castiel slurs in agreement, then reaches over to scrape his nails through the markings on the floor. From one blink to the next, his wings leave their vision and he easily turns over his shoulder to kiss under Dean’s chin. “They’re tender.”

“Sorry,” Dean mumbles before leaning to kiss him properly, a casualness to the apology that hasn’t been fitting on the others before now.

“No need,” Castiel says, shrugging his shoulders against Dean’s chest. He looks brighter about the eyes when he turns to look as Sam sits up, too. “I feel…better than I’ve felt in a long time,” he says, then tilts his head. “ _Good_ even.”

Sam smiles for him. He’s leaning forward before Castiel can even raise his hand all the way, kissing him sweetly. “We’re glad, Cas.”

They could use some good these days. They’ve sure suffered enough for it.


	4. Chapter 4

Even though they can’t see Castiel’s wings anymore, they absolutely notice the lighter way he moves now.

Sam feels a little bad, unfoundedly or no, for never noticing that he was carrying himself like he was in pain. His shoulders are not nearly as tight and the wounds on his back that had never quite healed correctly are closed entirely. He’d thought it was just discomfort about being made an _object_ , but also hadn’t thought to _ask_. His thoughts started slanting that way when they showered earlier, but Castiel had started kissing him distractingly like he’d felt it.

Speaking of which. Sam turns to Castiel, seated beside them in the kitchen even if he still insists, he doesn’t need food. He’s been absently wiping the counter just to give his hands something to do. “Hey, do _they_ know you’re back online?” he asks, nodding his head vaguely skyward.

The best they can figure is that the collar still acts like some sort of dampener on his grace, but minor healing seems to work everywhere below the neck. Basically, he should be careful not to hit his head or anything, but other than that, he’s as good as can be hoped for. That doesn’t account for new angelic interference, though.

Castiel pauses, shrugs. “I can’t hear them, so probably not,” he answers, staring into space.

“You’re not plugged into angel radio?” Dean asks.

That earns Dean a sad little smile. “No.” He shrugs again, though, looking over at Dean. “It’s sort of peaceful, honestly.”

“Can you hear _us_?” Sam asks, ignoring the mildly betrayed look Dean shoots him.

Castiel’s smile bolsters some. “Not as loud as before, but always.” He leans down to kiss the side of Dean’s nose. “That is very violent, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

Sam laughs as Dean goes red, tweaking Castiel’s cheek to push him away. “Smartass.”

That sort of carries the tone for the next few days. Every day, even as the curse pulls them together by the hips, Castiel gets bolder at the contact. Since getting his wings in order, there’s something to him that is much livelier and… _awake_ almost. He’s back to something like his usual dry humor and will move them where he wants them instead of just taking what they offer. Sam sucked him off and Castiel pulled his hair, grinding into his face without prompting. Dean let Castiel _fuck him_ , with Sam’s voice guiding them reverently from behind until Sam was pressed up into Castiel, too, guiding with the motion of his hips. In spite of it all, they’ve had a lot of good nights.

There are nights where Sam and Dean look at each other too long and move around each other stiff as cardboard cutouts trying to figure out how far this is going to go. Sometimes Castiel will startle and call them Master like he knows what happens if he doesn’t, and it takes hours for any of them to come back down to level. The Collar is far too prominent to _not_ steal the wind out of their sails some nights, but it’s not long after Castiel gets his wings fixed, that they find what might fix the whole damn situation.

Might, being the key word.

“Why _wouldn’t_ we do it?” Castiel asks with the kind of trust that makes Sam’s skin crawl.

Castiel can’t read the vast majority of the text they’ve compiled, but the second Sam put down his pencil and thought _this could work,_ he’d lit up.

“Because if we fuck it up, you could die,” Dean snaps before Sam can respond. “We’re not risking that.”

“Well. Not quite?” Sam suggests, raising his hands pacifyingly when Dean shoots him a look. “I’m not sure we can _undo_ the spell entirely, not without killing him, but we can _transfer_ a modified version of it onto him… Like…”

“Like a tattoo?” Castiel offers, half standing.

That’s better than the reference to branding Sam had seen. “Well, yeah, actually,” he says, then Castiel is out of his seat and across the room. “Got something?”

“How are tattoos better than a collar?” Dean asks, but it sounds like he just wants to confirm, not cut the idea off at the knees.

“We could designate him as his own owner,” Sam answers. “It would be a pretty big ink, probably a back piece, but besides getting rid of the kill switch, we could take our names off his life.”

“Actually,” Castiel starts as he comes back over. He’s got a wooden box Sam doesn’t recognize in his hands. He sets it down looking sheepish. “Can…? May I make a request?”

Dean folds his hands over his notes in John’s journal, giving Castiel his full attention. “You never have to ask permission for that, Cas.”

“If you _ch-ch-ch_ —” Castiel holds back the gag that wants to escape, hissing through his teeth. His hand comes up to the collar like he wants to rip it off right then. “I’m not meant to be _theirs._ ”

“We know, Cas, that’s—” Sam starts, but Castiel cuts him off.

“No!” he exclaims and even if he pales a little at how direct insolence must feel, he doesn’t suck it back, doesn’t grovel. “No, this is what they—” His fingers curl into the leather when it cuts his voice off. “ _You_ wouldn’t want this for me.”

The implication of what Castiel is saying hits like a lightbulb, but Sam isn’t sure what it’s illuminating except complete (and possibly intentional) misunderstanding _._ The angels have no idea that for whatever measure of fucked up they may be, the Winchesters never wanted Castiel as a _servant_. He was their friend and they _loved_ him. They were _in_ love with him.

Putting that collar around his throat and carving the name _Winchester_ was their idea of cruel honesty, a jab at Castiel, not necessarily at _them_.

“You wouldn’t want this for me,” Castiel says again. Sam reads between those lines: _This is what they think of you. This is what they think I am to you. This is their idea of our love, their collar._

“No, we wouldn’t,” Dean says, coming around the table to stand in front of him. “But you’ve probably had e-fucking-nough of what everyone else wants.” He wavers before he reaches to take Castiel’s hand. “What do _you_ want, Cas?”

“The tattoo.” Castiel answers, opening the box one handed. It’s a traditional tattooing set; rows of tiny needles strapped to bone and wood and bamboo sticks, already dark with old ink. There are blessings from just about every religion, major or otherwise, painted on the inside of the box, even engraved in some of the tools themselves. “My name—”

The collar steals his voice again. He lets out a frustrated breath, squeezing Dean’s fingers, Dean just holding on patiently until he can order his thoughts. Eventually, Castiel points to the collar, then skyward to heaven. Then he points to himself, his _heart_ before pointing to Sam and Dean. Castiel, Sam, Dean; again and again.

Sam doesn’t catch his meaning, but Dean’s face clears with shock when Castiel looks him dead in the face and lays a hand over his heart. “Castiel _Winchester?_ ”

The breath Castiel lets out is real relief then, seems to leave his whole body sagged and lax, more than anything else they’ve done for him. He holds up one finger then two. _First and second._

Dean looks like he could cry, tugs Castiel into his arms so his face is tucked over his shoulder before he can. “Yeah, Cas,” he says, holding him tightly. “I think we can do that.”

And yeah, they can, but Sam can’t help but look at the tools, with their _tiny_ needle heads with trepidation.

“Do you know how much a hand-tapped tattoo _that_ big down his _spine_ would hurt _?_ ” Sam says and Castiel whirls to level him with a look that pulls him up short. Nothing could hurt more than whatever he went through in heaven. Message received.

“People used these sorts of tools for centuries to get their entire bodies done,” Castiel says, picking up a well-loved spear, the end maybe having been a mother of pearl in a previous life. “I can handle it down my back, considering…” He raises his eyebrows in a way Sam takes to mean, _it can’t be any worse than having my wings broken._

“I don’t want to mess you up, Cas,” Sam tries feebly, wondering why he’s the one picking apart his own plan now. “I’m not an artist.”

“You’ve got a better eye than I do,” Dean tells him, not like he’s trying to convince him, but like it’s always been true. “It’s not like we can call in anyone else, not while…” He motions at the collar. “And ‘ _Hey, bro, this is holy oil and I need to dump it in your ink_ ’ ain’t gonna fly with any tattoo shop worth their shit.”

Sam looks down at the box of sharps, all blessed and tested on the Men of Letters themselves. That’s a fair enough start, Sam guesses, for the sake of his frazzled nerves. “I’m trying on myself first.”

“Gonna give yourself a stick-and-poke?” Dean asks lightly, clapping a hand on Sam’s shoulder.

Sighing, Sam shuts the box. “I guess so. Do we have any latex gloves?”

After he decides what image he’s even going to give himself, a quicker process than probably warrants permanent artwork, he mixes the holy oil into the available pigments. He picks blue for himself to leave enough standard black for all of Castiel’s piece and puts it on his thigh just for accessibility sake.

It stings like a bitch, but not enough to stop him. He sits in the bathtub, everything lined up right in reach along the edge of the tub, blood and ink pooling under his thigh. About an hour in and his wrist is cramping up, but it’s a recognizable shape. He wipes his leg, wipes his face, and keeps going. Castiel’s piece is going to take _for-shitting-ever_ , but the further along he gets, the less it seems like an insurmountable task. He shakes his wrists out, cracks his knuckles, and keeps going.

When he looks up to consult the image taped to the wall his neck pops, so he pauses, stretching through his wince. Also, Dean and Castiel are not really subtle about their peeking in on him, so, “I’m almost done with it, stop hovering. Just don’t lean in my light.”

The door opens all the way, but Sam looks down and wipes his leg before hunching over to finish the final lines.

“ _Nice,_ Sammy,” Dean says, twisting open another bottle of water for him. “What’s it say?”

“It’s a cross between angel and devil warding,” Sam says distractedly. His leg feels weirdly hot when he closes the last circle and wipes the whole thing again. Not like it’s burning, nothing sinister, just…warmer than the average healing wound. That’s fair, though, he supposes. He slouches back in the tub, looking up at Castiel. “The hole in the middle—”

“It’s an exception,” Castiel says looking awed.

Sam nods. “I can fill it in if you’re not comfortable with that, but after we do yours, you just gotta bleed on it and you’ll still be able to find me.”

Castiel is on his knees before anyone can say anything. He carefully nudges Sam’s empty water bottle onto the ground and kisses him with so much unshielded love it makes Sam’s heart pound in his chest. He pulls back just enough to whisper. “I love you, Sam Winchester.”

Sam’s smile dances around his mouth. “I love you, Castiel Winchester,” he replies, smirking when Castiel gives him a charmingly sweet smile at the name.

“Can I get one, too?” Dean asks. He doesn’t specify the kiss or the tattoo.

Sam rolls his eyes, ignoring the blush on his face. “Get in line.”

Even though Castiel heals some of the soreness in his wrist and gets the tattoo to the point of scabbing over, they still wait until the next morning to start on Castiel’s piece.

The bathroom, that most likely doubled as an impromptu med bay at some point, looks almost like a surgical suite. Castiel is shirtless and leaning over the back of a chair, resting his forearms on the table and his head on his forearms. There are a half-dozen vats of “blessed ink” already mixed and placed on a stool next to Sam’s knee, Dean fully prepared to make more should need be. His hovering isn’t bleeding into the territory of nervous, so Sam doesn’t let himself worry about chasing him off. He’s focusing on getting the stencil on Castiel’s back and confirming his previous thought that, yeah, this is going to take _ages._

“Let me know if the pain gets to be too much,” Sam tells him, looking around to make sure everything is right where it needs to be. Inks and needles on his right, gloves and wipes on his left. Dean’s got a pack of water by the door and can run for anything else. Sam has washed his hands and rubbed alcohol down Castiel’s spine. Anything more is just going to feel like fidgety procrastination.

“I will tell you if the pain gets to be too much,” Castiel answers faithfully, otherwise unmoving.

“Need anything else before Sam gets started?” Dean asks as Sam gloves up.

Castiel takes a shallow breath. “Can you come where I can see you?”

Dean doesn’t hesitate, sits down right at the side of the table where Castiel’s face is turned. “How’s that?”

“Better,” Castiel replies gratefully. His shoulders relax a fraction further. “Whenever you’re ready, Sam.”

“Right,” is all Sam lets himself reply because he’s not going to psych himself out, this is too important for shaky hands. He glances up at the buckle on the back of Castiel’s neck and has the most visceral feeling of ‘ _fuck you_ ’ he’s ever experienced; he’s getting this right.

Like everything else about breaking this curse, it’s going slow as hell, but it _is_ going. He keeps his lines straight and accurate, wipes the blood away so he can see and, just like on himself, _he keeps going_. Castiel, for his part, is perfectly still except for his breathing and quiet conversation with Dean. Sam isn’t actually sure what they’re talking about, but he enjoys the background input of their voices as he works around the knobs of Castiel’s spine. When he pauses to take a drink and stretch Castiel does the same, but otherwise, Sam doesn’t pull back from the meditative flow he’s finding himself in. If he just focuses on making sure his hand follows the guidelines he laid, the guidelines he and Dean tripled checked at every stage, this doesn’t seem so daunting.

Sam is about half-way down Castiel’s back when he feels him tense, pulls his hands away as Dean’s voice suddenly clips off. “Cas?”

“It’s fighting it,” Castiel grunts, squeezing Dean’s hand where at some point Sam had missed it’s slid under his. He presses his face into the table taking a shaky breath. “It’s _working_.”

“Well, no stopping now,” Dean mumbles hopefully, stroking Castiel’s knuckles. Sam just swallows, because well, yeah.

By the time Sam reaches the base of Castiel’s spine, he’s kneeling on a towel on the floor. His back hurts something awful, which he distantly finds funny, but is mostly focused on fighting through the cramp slowly working its way up his forearm. At this point, the only reason he _isn’t_ shaking is sheer force of will. He’s not fumbling it this close to the end.

The end comes before Sam is really prepared for it in the form of Castiel’s tattoos suddenly scabbing over just as he’s about to go over the last line to be double, triple, _completely_ sure. He pulls his hands back from the closing wounds, shocked. The tattoos stay dark even as they settle rapidly into Castiel’s skin, Castiel himself sitting up sharply. “ _Sam!_ ”

“I’m here, I’m right here,” Sam asks, looking at the bar of texts down the middle of Castiel’s back. It all looks right, to the best of his understanding, and he’s been looking _a lot._ “Did it work?” He knocks his chair over as Castiel stumbles to his feet, Dean and Sam immediately following suit, albeit despite their body’s audible protesting of quick handling so suddenly.

“Cas?” Dean tries, stepping towards him.

The look on Castiel’s face when he turns around is a little hard for Sam to describe, but has to be somewhere in the neighborhood of hope and disbelief. He’s got tears in his eyes. Castiel grabs the collar and nothing stops him. His hands are shaking when he reaches for the buckle. It comes off in his hands and he takes a deep breath, gasping, not because he can’t breathe, but because he _can._

Dean lets out the same breath Sam had been holding. “Cas Winchester,” he says, a delighted smirk splitting his face.

Grace flares, white-blue, into Castiel’s eyes. “Yes,” he looks down at the collar in his hand and Sam thinks for a moment he’s going to fling it across the room. Instead, it burst into flames in his hands, not even ashes hitting the floor. “Always _._ ”

The actual relief hits then and Sam nearly loses his legs, when Dean laughs “ _Son of a bitch, we did it_ ” and wraps him in a hug that legitimately pops his spine. Even that, though, makes Sam laugh as he holds his inked, bloodied gloves off Dean’s shirt. Then Castiel is crashing into them, smiling, and crying, and kissing their faces, “ _thank you, thank you, I love you both so much_.” Sam cannot believe this actually worked.

“Hey, hey, Cas,” Dean says, wearing his joy like a child. “Go make me a sandwich.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Castiel replies just as happily, tracing a finger down the back of Sam’s neck that takes away most of the day’s tension in one fell swoop. Sam laughs and bows his head into the touch gratefully, swaying into Castiel’s embrace, clutching at his brothers like he never wants to let go.

Later, or tomorrow, or next week, they’ll sit down and talk about revenge. They’ll get more details of what happened and talk about storming the gates of heaven, raising a little hell, what their lives will be like after.

Tonight, though, Castiel is a new Winchester. Tonight, he bleeds on Sam’s tattoo and they talk about Dean getting a matching one, but on the opposite leg. Tonight, Castiel kisses them uncoerced and guiltfree, he lays them down and lays all his love on them until they’re all short of breath and a tangled mess. Until they’re very nearly one singular thing, all wound up in itself; Winchesters.

Tonight, being a Winchester is more than enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading…you deserve the most gentle, worshipful handling
> 
> And again, thank YOU, Hazel, for letting me play in your idea!! I hope you enjoyed my little spin. Everyone who hasn’t seen the original already should check it out, it’s lovely and by lovely I mean Painful.
> 
> Unsexy reminders: As always, saying “yes” to sex when coerced by an unpleasant alternative is not consent. On a lighter level, please don’t DIY body mods willy-nilly.
> 
> Also, omgbubblesomg inspired one of my new year’s resolutions (to make note of related fics to rec), as such, here is some continued reading for hurt!Castiel:
> 
> [Buried](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13098159/chapters/29965773) by omgbubblesomg
> 
> (ALSO ALSO, it's almost Fandom Tr*mps Hate time, keep your eyes peeled for that!)


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